


then you gave me something (something to believe in)

by lqbys



Category: iKON (Korea Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pining, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2019-07-08 17:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15935000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lqbys/pseuds/lqbys
Summary: how do you say goodbye, when you’ve hardly said hello?(hanbin has a hole where something used to be and yunhyeong keeps disappearing over and over again until one day he stops existing)





	1. banana brain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- drug!addicts slash lowlives!au i guess? disclaimer heavy drug use, which i dont in any way encourage  
> \- this goes out for bea (@jiwonsmaid) who helped me give birth to this and listened to me complaining about craving death thank u i love uuuuu
> 
>  
> 
> we're in for a long run boys and gals please put on ur mf seat belts x

Hanbin wakes up in someone else’s dirty bathtub. 

He forces his eyes open to a world of blinding tiles and suffocating air. There’s a strange puddle of brown liquid on the floor, some stains of it on his jacket, and he guesses things ended the usual way— he’s puked his guts out before blacking out.

He’s not alone. It doesn’t matter when the few other bodies are passed out as well.

There’s a part of him still unawaken and unable to have a solid grasp of the situation, begging him to close his eyes and doze off. Nevermind the aching joints, the stiffness of his back, the rumble of an empty stomach, nevermind it all. Hadn’t it been for the timid buzz of his phone in his pocket jolting him awake, Hanbin would’ve slumped back into his not-so-comfortable position and gone the fuck back to sleep. 

It takes every last bit of his remaining strength to find the device and muster enough braincells to remember the code to unlock it. Hanbin frowns, swearing it’s the last fucking time he drinks his way to an early grave, like he always does. _Whatever_. 

> ` hannnbbbiibnnnshgugeg`

  
``

> `where the fuck are you`

  
``

> `whatever Idc anyway just dont forget getting the stash 4 tonight`

  
``

> `idk when junes gon be round but meet up @ his 7pm `

The texts are from Jiwon. Shit. Junhoe’s birthday party is tonight, but the thing has completely and utterly slipped out of his still smoke-filled mind. Before he locks his phone, the screen flashes 3:48 pm on the screen. 

He’s had one too many chemicals substances injected into his body to deal with this right now, but he _has_ to.

When he turns his head, he sees a girl suddenly straighten up and throw up all over herself, eyelids fluttering open and close before flopping back on her own plash of vomit – Hanbin realizes he did the whole waste of space, fuck-up junkie thing his dad kept blabbering about _again_.

☘

It has been raining for days, now. Old people think it’s bad omen, gods finally cleaning society of all its filth – meanwhile the youth is just pissed it can’t go out and do its thing anymore. It just doesn’t stop, as if the skies broke open one day and decided to pour down every last bit of water they contained.

Hanbin doesn’t give a shit either way. _Qu’il vente ou qu’il pleuve_ , his mother used to say when he felt down and low, _rain or wind, Bini, never stop chasing your dreams_. Bless his mom’s heart— qu’il vente ou qu’il pleuve, he’d get his goddamned pills one way or another.

The streets are clear, abandoned, not a single soul outside but Hanbin. His windbreaker keeps water from soaking him wet although his converses don’t. It doesn’t bother him as much as it should: he hums quiet tunes to himself, counting stars inside his head. 

He was supposed to be at Junhoe’s twenty minutes—shit, an _hour_ — ago. But exiting the stranger’s house and staggering through the city, trying to get inside Jaewon’s apartment from the balcony, showering and stealing his clothes – it had taken more time than what he anticipated. 

Now, here he is – late and soaked to the bone.

The surprise party or whatever Jiwon decided to come up with for his boyfriend went sideways before falling promptly apart. They didn’t have enough food, enough alcohol, enough pills, enough anything. Time ran a lot quicker when you’re high, Jiwon’s used to it – he just never learns. No one even knows whether Junhoe is available tonight or not, but they still have to make some sort of efforts, just try – at least by their clique’s shit standards. 

Hanbin walks fast in puddles of water drenching his socks until he reaches the local supermarket.

As doors open in front of him, his phone rings. Some old British pop tune echoing through the empty mall. He accepts the call, but doesn’t bring the phone to his ear. Still Jiwon’s complains are loud, piercing through the phone’s speakers. 

_What the fuck is taking you so long, fuckwit? Goddamnit, Hanbin, motherfucker, when are you? The fuck have you been doing, what the hell is wrong with you –_

One ear, and right out of the other one. 

Then, out of the blue, another voice. “Good evening.”

Hanbin’s eyes flicker to his right. Dead and lonely, just like the rest of the town, but ever so different. There, a single cashier. Smiling, eyes forming crescent moons he’s never seen before. Hanbin’s lips twitch, and he doesn’t give greetings back. He doesn’t linger around much longer either, rather dives inside the southern aisle of the shop. The air smells like bleach, everything where it is supposed to be, everything as he remembers—expect the cashier.

His fingers dart forward, running over some canned articles as he feigns looking for food. 

There’s an itch on the back of his neck when he brings the phone to his ear, speaks with his mouth tugging down. “Your boytoy isn’t there today.”

“The fuck,” Jiwon groans. The line goes quiet for a moment, sounds of rustling and loud footsteps instead of growling. “He said he’d be fucking there. Shit. Then _who’s_ there?”  


Hanbin dares a quick glance behind his shoulder. The cashier’s still grinning but this time, not looking at him, features wistful yet boyish under the harsh lightning of the store. Dyed neon green hair, one eye blacker than black and the other cold as ice, lollipop carefully lodged inside his right cheek. Blurry edges like he’s from another distorted reality, mismatched clothes and colors which should never be worn together. He catches his eyes in seconds, and Hanbin looks away like a kid caught red-handed.

“I don’t fucking know who that is,” he replies begrudgingly, hissing words through his teeth. His fingers twist the etiquette of the first product they find, and he breathes deeply once, twice. He’s good at this, knowing the streets and its filth, pinning sob stories over faces and reciting names at the top of his head. He’s supposed to be. “Never seen him around.” 

The thudding of the rain falling outside is growing louder. It’s the first time in weeks it’s happened, the loud and deafening sound of lightning strikes. Hanbin’s still looking pointlessly at food the whole town knows his stomach can’t handle.

“You think he knows?” Jiwon asks, careful, grinding his teeth together. He can’t see him, but he knows he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, the way he always does when anxiety blooms under his skin. 

Hanbin is quiet at first. Moves around a bit, from one aisle to another, enjoys having the whole place for himself. The convenience store isn’t big, but it isn’t small either, and logically, it should have more than one employee working at time. Logically. His thumb pierces through the plastic covering a pack of water bottles. He doesn’t like abrupt change, spontaneity, things he hasn’t been told beforehand crashing down on him.

And he doesn’t like the new cashier either. 

“I don’t know, Bobs.” 

Jiwon’s reply comes right after a long, long sigh. “Junhoe said he’d be there in one hour,” he says, just above a defeated whisper, probably biting down on his fingernail. “How m’I supposed to get all the stuff in one fucking hour?”

Hanbin’s eyes meet the cashier’s again. He’s usually good at reading people, but the man behind the counter is written in alien language and it makes Hanbin’s skin itch and burn in ways he isn’t used to. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the smirk playing on the edge of the guy’s lips, the knowing glint in his eyes. He catches glimpses of dark lines on his collarbones when the cashier moves— _tattoos_ — and draws in a breath without realizing it. 

Does he know? About the convenience store’s strange ways and stranger owner, the prescriptions pills and cheap drugs hidden away in very specific packaging of food. A certain type of cereals for white powder, packs of gum or cigarettes depending on the pills one would take. Does he know, about the previous cashier? Jiwon’s ex, Jiwon’s personal soul to torture and order around as much as he likes because the guy’s just that dumb and still loves him to hell and back. Hanbin feels the tiny hair of his nape stand, shivering slightly.

He fucking hates _new_.

“We’ll manage,” he grumbles, dismissively. Jiwon’s protests cut off suddenly when he ends the call without warning, shoving the phone in the pocket of his jeans. Hanbin pulls at the mask covering his face, tucking it under his chin, then reports his attention to the food surrounding him. 

Birthday parties. They have half the booze, half the junk and actual food (Chanwoo promised to cook some edibles too, so there’s that). He reckons he’d just have to grab whatever for good measure and appearances.

His phone rings again, Jiwon being desperate and anxious as always even though Hanbin told him not to smoke without taking his medication first. The thing is still blasting the decade old song he set as ringtone when Hanbin’s at last facing the green-haired cashier, dropping the few items he’s picked up along the way for the sake of it. Up close, the cashier somehow looks substantially less like one of Hanbin’s bad trip and a lot more real, clear lines and smooth skin. Round eyes, full lips curved into a vile little thing, a thin choker around his neck and nails painted black. 

He has to know, Hanbin thinks. He has to, when he’s looking like he’s walked right out of a MDMA-induced hallucination himself.

Song Yunhyeong, the nametag reads. 

“Didn’t know people still willingly listened to The Who.” 

Hanbin startles a bit, but catches himself quickly. Song Yunhyeong’s gaze is heavy and avid on him as he beeps articles mechanically. He’s smiling, has doubtlessly not stopped doing so ever since Hanbin’s walked his tired limbs inside the store. Unease settles on Hanbin’s still itchy skin, clinging to him like a damp shirt – but there’s also more to it, soft flames licking at his insides, a strange feeling toying with his guts he doesn’t want to think about. So he keeps to himself, doesn’t reply to the man.

“Kinda weird, average at most.” 

He’s got his own issues, but others have never been one. Kim Hanbin is a people kind of person, vibes easily with the world, a smooth talker and heart healer, able to catch the slightest glimpses of emotion in faces, flickering lights in eyes – senses exactly what’s going on in your mind. The reason why he’s always the one scoring them good deals, using sweet smiles and feather touches to have more than he can afford. Kim Hanbin does well with people, but Song Yunhyeong is made of hieroglyphs and Hanbin’s magic is crumbling down fast.

“Well, I guess some bands will never die.” 

Before he knows it, his stuff is paid for and the cashier bows his head a little. Hanbin suddenly wants to ask him if he believes in the far side of the moon. The blue of his contact lense feels hot while the black is empty, yet calm in a threatening sort of way. Song Yunhyeong’s ghost of a smile sends chills up and down Hanbin’s spine and he doesn’t like it at all. Do you know? 

“See you round, love.”

Hanbin doesn’t realize he has been holding his breath until he’s back under pouring rain with two plastic bags in one hand, while the other clutches at his windbreaker as he exhales deeply.

☘

“You’ve got the stuff? Say.”

Jiwon’s practically cooing at him, bouncing up and down with an unlit fag dangling from his lips. He speaks fast, chewing on his syllables and not making much sense, with a smile you’d see on a five year old’s face when it’s time to open the presents under the tree. All things considered, it does feel like Christmas anyway, and Jiwon is, in a lot of ways, a kid stuck inside a grown-up’s body. Hanbin kicks off his pumps, hands over the bags full of groceries, but doesn’t have the heart to tell him no, I ain’t got the pills. He circles around a few boxes lying here and there, surely for the party, sheds from his soaked clothes as he makes his way towards the living room’s expensive leather couch.

Junhoe’s apartment is a chic and constant reminder of the gargantuan gap between their financial situations, with an imaginary, big marble-sculpted board hanging on each wall telling them no matter how hard they try to believe it, they’ll never be a part of it. He lives in the core center of downtown Seoul, where most the fun and the coke is, and Hanbin isn’t quite sure half of the people supposed to be here can locate the block in the first place. Scratch that – if they’re even allowed to throw parties in such luxurious apartments. Every piece of the flat looks like it costs millions of wons, all made of velvet and silk. Hanbin throws his feet over the armchair and doesn’t bother taking off his wet, dirty socks.

“Oh my god, you did,” he hears, a muffled cry of joy from Jiwon, already stuffing his mouth with chips. 

“The fuck,” Hanbin growls, shooting a confused look towards his best-friend. “I didn’t—” 

“And you brought June’s favorite! Bro, I could suck your dick right fucking now.” 

His protests die in the back of his throat the second he sees Jiwon happily revealing the three packs of cigarettes, showing them with a dazzling, toothy grin. Two Chesterfields for PCP, one Camel for opioids. Hanbin’s mouth goes dry in his mouth, heart tripping on itself. He doesn’t remember asking for them, doesn’t remember the green-haired cashier smuggling them in the bags without him even noticing. 

_You did know, Song Yunhyeong._

Suddenly, Chanwoo’s head pops out of the kitchen’s doorframe, cheeks full. “What’s up?” he sputters, chunks of food flying all around. “Hyung bought the stuff?”  


“Dude.” Jiwon snickers, tip-toing over the wet floor freshly moped with a handful of bags until he’s reached the youngest of them. “We’re going to have _so much_ fucking fun.”


	2. talkin’ about your 몸

The last minute shitty get-together organized by Jiwon doesn’t go half as bad as Hanbin thought it would. They managed to fill the fridge with enough alcohol to last weeks, order pizzas and more importantly-- glue some fluorescent star stickers on the wall. Junhoe’s favorite apparently. JInhwan bitched and whined and sulked all the way through it and called them stupid one hundred times because a birthday party isn’t supposed to be planned hours before it happens, but all in all, they managed. Hanbin thinks it’s a miracle, Jiwon rather praises his personal management skills acquired after an entire life of never planning anything. By the time they’re done with everything it’s half an hour to eight, and Junhoe’s about to come home any minute. 

“Yo, where the fuck is the butter?” Minho’s voice pierces through all, a loud screech.

Hanbin winces, ears ringing. He’s stretched all his body up, trying to tie together a few neon-colored, dick-shaped helium balloons above the living’s room couch. He’s always been shit a making tight knots, so he gives up with a sigh, flopping dramatically on the sofa. He combs his hair with one hand and hisses loudly when black strands get stuck to his rings. 

“Shit. We’re running out of time.” 

Minho’s racing from one room to another, searching for ingredients of the space-cookies he’s supposed to bake; Chanwoo’s mixing cocktails and name-tagging each huge bowl full of rainbow liquor with a sharpie; Jinhwan and Lalisa are arguing over whose playlist they should choose and Jaewon is still trying to unlace his Docs, even though he’s arrived twenty minutes ago. 

They’re ready, but they aren’t really at the same time. It’s all a very organized, _yes we know what we’re doing even if it doesn’t look like it_ kind of chaos. Hanbin’s gaze falls down to the balloons slowly deflating in his hands. They’re green. Like Song Yunhyeon’s hair. His mind takes him back to the convenience store, in front of the cashier and the heaviness of his eyes. He’s tattooed, he remembers. Neck, hands, and the rest covered by long-sleeves and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. 

He wonders if the rest of him is tatt—

The lock suddenly clicks. People freeze. There’s a loud _motherfucker_ screamed in a very stressed out tone somewhere from the apartment, then everything falls quiet seconds before the door opens.

☘

Koo Junhoe is weird in a very normal way. He’s smarter than most, a college sophomore in bioengineering, with features which earn him sideway glances and usual stopping by girls who think he’s some idol or famous model. A rich kid from a richer family, all polished looks and carefully guarded composures. But he’s got his quirks, corrupt morals, filthy secrets and perhaps it explains why his circle of friends only consists of low-lives and drug addicts. Hanbin doesn’t remember the details of how Jiwon and Junhoe’s love story began, but the big picture is something that would probably stain the Koo’s family name for the rest of their lives. 

So, there he stands, in all his shiny-suit and fancy outfit glory, looking at them like they’ve grown another head and a set of new arms, with his Chinese take-out secured under his arms. “What the fuck,” he spits out, eyebrows knotting together.

Silence. Silence like they’ve never had one in hours, everybody somehow out of place all the while still managing to remain half-hidden, stopped mid-motion in whatever they were doing. Hanbin’s still zoning out on his couch, barely grasping the situation.

Junhoe’s about to snap, features already all distorted and scrunched together while his eyes glint with anger now that confusion’s gone, but his boyfriend’s quicker.

“Happy _fucking_ birthday!” 

Jiwon’s beaming, whole face lightning up with a smile so big one would think any fucking more and he’s going to split his face in two. He’s a blur of purple hair and clothes twice his size when he rushes to Junhoe. “Wait, no, don’t—” 

“You’re a grown up now. Happy birthday, baby!” he yells, voice pitched high and cracking like it always does when he’s excited. 

They both fall on the floor, while things start to fall into place from that second on. 

Jiwon’s still all tangled around a very riled up Junhoe, a deep shade of red smudged all over his face and glare softening as seconds go by.

He shouts with all his might, “Let’s fucking rage!” and music suddenly blasts.

☘

 

“See, I ain’t really care what people do with their bodies.” Chanwoo’s tongue darts out in a quick motion, licking the paper before rolling the joint with expert fingers. He’s squished between Hanbin and Minho who is already past the stage of mild drunk, already nursing tomorrow’s hangover. “Like, I was fucking this girl that one time, doggystyle and all, yeah? And she had those two names tattooed on both asscheeks and a cat’s paw underneath one. So I thought, man, are these cat names? Or her ex and his cat? Or two exes? Got me all worked-up for a whole lotta time I swear at one point I downright forgot I had my dick stuffed inside her ass. Ah, to this day, hyung, I still think that shit gives me sleep paralysis on a constant fucking basis.” 

Hanbin’s head rolls off Chanwoo’s shoulder. He feels dizzy, the kind of hungover slash drunk he knows he’s going to regret. His vision is blurry around the edges, so he takes a hand to his face and rubs his bloodshot eyes. He doesn’t know when the party morphed from a casual, friendly night between the few of them to latin music blasted at full volume and bodies heaving on every inch of the floor. The apartment is so packed Hanbin doesn’t even know how the walls haven’t caved in on themselves yet. 

Minho’s head suddenly jerks up, squinting his eyes as he slurs, “What, you were fucking her _cats_?” 

“You’re so fucking dumb, hyung.” Chanwoo passes him the freshly rolled joint, and Minho’s face lights up in pure delight like a fucking Christmas tree or something. “Not that I care how much ya wanna ruin your already shit healthy, you know you shouldn’t, right? You’ve had too much of too many things.” 

“Chanu right,” Hanbin blurts out, lodges his head again against the youngling’s shoulder. Closes his eyes for good measure. God, he’s going to die. “You should leave me that.” 

Minho swats his hand away in one surprisingly precise motion. “Back off, you fucking hyena. I can handle meself very well.” 

There are some more back and forth curses between the three of them. Hanbin loses interest after a while, lets them bite each other’s face off as they argue over whether or not Minho’s body will resist yet another chemical substance before shutting down. At last his eyes go out of focus again, and Hanbin knows it’s time for him to take a room for himself and crash until the hungover already slowly building itself decides enough is enough. 

“I’m gonna take a piss,” he grumbles, using Chanwoo’s thigh as support to straighten his body up and try to stand. It’s hard work: the whole world suddenly spins and he’s out of control. “Jesus fucking Christ.” 

“You gonna be good, champ?” Minho’s giggling on his own, looking at him with hooded lids and warm cheeks, sitting cross-legged in the far-end of the couch. He’s got the joint Chanwoo has fixed between his lips, and with each lungful of it, his eyes roll back and Hanbin thinks _he’s fucking dead_.

“Don’t you die on me tonight, Song Minho.” 

Minho nods sternly, lifting his joint in the air to wave goodbye. “Gotcha, love.”

☘

Hanbin doesn’t really mind parties. There is always fun in every corner, and if he’s lucky, he finds true happiness with dope and a quick hook-up. Stumbling his way through the mass of alcohol-driven, sweaty bodies, he lets people grab and touch as they want. He’s already got another cigarette burning away between his lips, trying to find familiar faces in the crowd: every inch of the flat is stuffed with strangers drinking their soju, smoking their drugs.

Jiwon and Junhoe disappeared in the early stages of the party, probably wasted in the latter’s bedroom—it’s no use looking out for them. He somehow spots Hayi with two guys rubbing against her, both of them clearly gone and surely not noticing the blonde stealing from them. She flashes him a lopsided grin, so he knows she’ll be okay. 

It takes him more time than it should to make his way to the bathroom, two corridors away from the living room. On his way there, he’s weak enough to ignore the aching churn his stomach makes at the smell of alcohol when a petite girl passes by with a plate full of cups, announcing berry punch and flavored soju. He snatches one cup swiftly, breathes out a couple of ‘sorrys’ until he’s out of the pulsating crowd, safe and sound inside the bathroom.

I shouldn’t have drunk that much, he thinks. I shouldn’t have taken this cup either, he’s still thinking, eyes on the tiny waves on the surface of the soju. He’s deep into yet another self-pity episode when his brain finally does what it is paid for and he realizes.

Under the harsh explosion of light in the all-white bathroom, one single color stands out. 

“One hundred thousand. Either pay or fuck off.” The words are spoken in a low tone, his voice harsher than Hanbin remembers. 

This time, Song Yunhyeong isn’t wearing contact lenses. The comforting blue is gone, leaving two black holes instead of one. When they glance his way for a quick second, they lose their coldness, the void filled with something heavier, darker, igniting the same soft fire from the morning in Hanbin’s lower abdomen. 

_Goddamn it._

“Whatever. Whatever, I’ll take it.” The guy he’s talking to is short, the kind of scrawny only caused by heroin, with bones sticking out and yellowish, putrid looking skin. He doesn’t even notice the third person in the room, his big dull eyes on Yunhyeong and Yunhyeong only. He’s fumbling with his words, skinny fingers darting forward to fist the man’s shirt.

Yunhyeong barks in a low, vicious voice. “Touch me and I’ll break your fucking hands.” 

The guy shrieks away in a heartbeat – Hanbin feels like he’s about to melt under his sweater. Blames it on the many shots of banana-flavored soju he’s had, the spliff he’s smoked earlier today, blames it on everything but Song Yunhyeong’s voice. 

A moment of cold silence, before the junkie shakily hands the money and almost claws at the little plastified bag handed back to him. He stumbles to the door in seconds, almost knocking himself out against Hanbin, dashing out before any of them can even blink twice. He leaves behind him a rotten stench, so Hanbin stretches his free hand to his mouth and covers it with a disgusted hiss. 

“Fuck.” Almost choking, he momentarily forgets about the green-haired cashier still standing there, watching him with blazing eyes.

Though, when he does remember he’s still there watching him, Hanbin’s heart picks up speed so quick it almost feels like a heart-attack. There he stands, Song Yunhyeong, his last words virtually echoing on the cold white tiles of the harshly lit bathroom. Touch me and I’ll break your hands. Hanbin wants to try. Wants to dare, and see the look on his face when he brushes his fingers against his skin. 

_God fucking shit. Get a grip of yourself, Hanbin_. 

He swiftly looks away, once again, feels embarrassment heating up his cheeks, but not before catching sight of the quick upraise of the guy’s lips. Good thing he still has an entire fucking cup full of mixed hell and more alcohol than one’s body can handle— Hanbin downs the drink in one-go, ignoring the painful trail of fire all the way to his stomach. He’s going to hate himself real fucking bad in a few hours, but right now it feels like the best thing ever and he’s so glad to be immediately washed away by the alcohol.

The light buzz and tipsiness from earlier has now turned into a full-blown drunken state where Hanbin feels like gravity isn’t a thing anymore and his whole body isn’t truly his. He’d feel great overall, but the sudden pang of discomfort his about-to-implode bladder sends reminds him why he’s crossed the entire flat to get there.

Yeah, right—need to piss. But Song Yunhyeong… 

Song Yunhyeong isn’t moving. Doesn’t look like he’s about to move anytime soon, leaning against the washbasin, his toned arms crossed against his chest. He’s wearing a plain black tank-top, Hanbin notices for the first time. _It’s fucking cold_ is the first thing he thinks, then comes _I want to lick all his fucking tattoos_ and Hanbin wishes to every god above the clouds to strike him down then and there.

“I need to,” he begins, mouth so dry his voice suddenly cracks and god he wants to disappear. His mind is blank, unable to come up with any sort of coherent chain of words, so for an embarrassing length of time they both remain silent. 

Hanbin clears his throat a little too loudly. Doesn’t dare moving, afraid he’d fall and ridicule himself further than he already has. Song Yunhyeong’s gaze is unnerving, flickering up and down, giving him an almost predatory like once-over. His expression impossible to read if not for the cocky grin practically glued to his lips.

He tilts his head just a little towards the toilet seat, as he says with a breathy little chuckle, “need to piss?” 

“Yeah.” 

Hanbin regrets finishing his drink so fast. He feels he’s not high at all nor drunk enough for this, even if his body would respectfully and heartfully disagree with such statement. He looks at Yunhyeong, and Yunhyeong shots him a smug look back with a light tilt of his head, asking for a challenge –a fight. The atmosphere shifts and morphs, heavier, more tension, the air boiling hot. A pit of fire under each cheek burning up the skin, Hanbin gives in—takes his first step to what feels like the biggest mistake he will ever do.  
The walk to the latrine isn’t a walk but two quick steps that almost send him to the spotless, white floor. Any sense of balance human beings usually have has left Hanbin’s body and he’s got trouble simply standing upright. Yunhyeong hasn’t fucking moved, neither when Hanbin grips at his belt and fumbles with it a few moments, nor when he sends him a half-hearted glare. 

“Come _the fuck_ on.” 

Admittedly, he can’t care less about pissing in front of someone else. He’s done it enough already, in various scales of sober to drunk to stop caring altogether. Hanbin clicks his tongue, loudly, narrows his eyes when they go out of focus and his fingers blur into one another. He’s about to hiss another set of colored curses through his teeth when he hears a short chuckle behind him. 

“Hanbin-ah.” A hot breath against his neck, as the tiny hair of his nape stand on their own. “Think you’re sober enough for that?” 

If Hanbin’s throat didn’t feel so fucking tight, his heart might’ve jumped straight out of his mouth. How he knows his name, Hanbin doesn’t have a clue, neither cares at this point. He feels movement behind him, warmth from the other’s body slowly flooding through him the closer he gets. Soon enough, there’s a set of toned arms snaking around his waist.

Shit. 

Hanbin doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about what it looks like, and what Yunhyeong has in mind. There’s a pool of fire slowly building itself in his lower abdomen yet at the same fucking time an icy chill prickling down his spine, fast, almost painful in the way goosebumps erupt on his skin.

Abruptly, like a flash of realization in the mush of fried neurons and clouded thoughts his brain has turned into, he becomes painfully aware of every drink he’s had. Alcohol pulsating through his veins the way blood should and dulling the last of his good senses— hadn’t he been so out of his own body, fear would’ve pumped faster in his system and the blurry lines of _‘you don’t know him nor what he wants’_ rattling in the back of his mind would’ve rang louder. 

Unfortunately, things never go the way they should for Kim Hanbin.

Song Yunhyeong has tattooed hands. Hanbin’s knees feel like jelly, unable to bear his weight anymore, and when he does falter just a little, Yunhyeong’s a solid foundation behind him and manages to keep him upright. 

“Let me.” 

It feels surreal, but the cashier’s fingers are quick to bring him back to earth. They undo his belt smoothly, then work on his fly with no hesitation whatsoever. Hanbin’s entire being is another’s, the scene taking place without him. His lungs don’t work quite right anymore, his breath stuck somewhere in his esophagus, unable to squeeze past his throat and the heat gathering in his lower stomach is almost aching by now. 

_Let me_. 

Yunhyeong’s hand slips past the hem of his briefs’ waistband, slowly, like a heart-attack waiting to happen. 

Hanbin’s done worse in filthier places. It shouldn’t affect him as much as it does. Yet…

Yunhyeong’s fingers are cold, his grip strong as he frees him of his underwear. A split second during which he thinks he’s about to pass out when he catches sight of the inked hand around his cock, his heart hammering mercilessly— the thrill of it enough to undo him.

“Don’t have all night,” Yunhyeong growls in his ear, irked undertones in the roughness of it. Just the way he talked to the crackhead, albeit toned down the slightest. (Just the way he likes.) “Piss.”

Hanbin’s body obeys before he has time to feel outraged. So he does piss, without spilling everywhere like he usually does when trashed. Eyes closing, enjoying the absolute gratifying experience of emptying a bladder before it implodes. There’s Song Yunhyeong’s hand around his cock too, but that is undoubtedly tomorrow morning and the following ones’ trouble, not his. (That is if he remembers, and on every fucking god’s name, he hopes he doesn’t).

When he’s thoroughfully done, the cashier moves as lazily as ever, walking off to the washbasin with neat, pretty floral patterns all over the edges. Before the door closes behind him, Song Yunhyeong gives him one last long, wolfish look. Then he’s gone, leaving Hanbin alone and having a hard time gathering his thoughts back.

☘

When Hanbin crawls back to the pity-party his friends decided to throw amongst themselves in the middle of the living room, half of them have disappeared and the other half is slouched all across the couch, Lalisa passed out on Jaewon’s lap with several sharpie-drawn dicks all over her face and Jaewon high to all heavens.

With wobbly knees, he walks until he too can lie on the couch, placing his head on Jaewon’s free thigh. The plastic bin he has brought with himself sits close, just in case. Lalisa’s soft purrs warms his neck, and the warmth of Jaewon’s body feels so good both things combined would’ve put him to sleep hadn’t it been for the memories of tattooed fingers all over him. (And also the fact that his mind spins round and round the second he dares closing his eyes, but Yunhyeong’s taken all over his thoughts anyway).

Shivers running down his spine, Hanbin asks, with a shaky edge to his voice. “Hyung. D’you know a Song Yunhyeong?” 

Jaewon looks at him with narrowed eyes, pondering for a second. “Nah.” He thinks some more, and when nothing comes, he chirps up, “Who that?” 

“He held my dick and helped me piss right like.” 

Hanbin can’t see Jaewon’s face, but he knows he is probably looking at him with wide eyes and half a pout, the way he always does when he doesn’t expect something and it happens nonetheless.

“Fucking _bonkers_ ,” he murmurs. “I’ve sucked your dick and had yours up my ass but even I didn’t do that. Did he really…?” 

“He did.” 

It’s odd enough on its own and Jaewon doesn’t press furthermore. Instead, his fingers scrap at his head gently, running through strands of untamed hair. 

Hanbin closes his eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont do mf drugs kids


	3. kdh

The blink of an eye and bodies are gone, albeit not entirely—they’re just sprawled on any surface possible. When Jiwon stumbles back into the mess the living has become, he hasn’t entirely sobered up and the short period of restless shut-eye he caught is merely enough. 

“ _Sh-it_ ,” he mumbles under his breath, his migraine a throbbing force trying to break out of his skull. 

He’s got odd stains on his clothes, but there are even weirder, damper spots everywhere on the floor and it’s all too much to deal with in this ungodly hour.

Whatever. Whatever, Junhoe’d kill him for the mess and the strangely odd number of broken stuff, vomit in his dear plant pots and ruined curtains. It’d be like that, sometimes, and he takes full responsibility. 

(He doesn’t).

Jiwon finds Jaewon and Lalisa asleep on the couch, and another person he doesn’t recognize. On the floor— Hanbin, with a bin at arm length, one hand clutched tight around, while the other one covers his eyes from sunlight. Getting closer, Jiwon realizes the bin is full of vomit, and the horrid smell is almost enough to awaken the twirling of his own sensitive stomach. Vodka hasn’t thoroughfully been purged from his system yet, and his best friends looks like he’s in equally painful state. 

“Hanbin,” Jiwon whines, slumping on the floor with a loud thud. His sleeve is pressed against his mouth and blocks the awful smell from his nostrils, but the sight of the bucket isn’t helping either. “Hey, come on, bro, wake up.” 

Hanbin’s arm slides down from his face, and a rumbling, whiny groan escapes his lips when his eyes meet the morning lights. Lalisa’s abrupt wakening comes soon, like pretty much everything else she does when Hanbin’s around— they all often said the both of them were, in all levels expect biological, twins separated at birth. The Thai girl straightens up so quick Jiwon thinks she’s seen death, her doe eyes with smudged liner and cakey mascara big and surprised looking all around like she doesn’t know where she is. 

Jiwon’s cheeks fill with air as he tries hard to choke down laughter. “God, you look like shit.”

“Shut up,” Lalisa says with a crack in her voice, before promptly letting herself collapse on top of Hanbin, her body suddenly limp and bound to gravity only.

The next couple of minutes is spent trying to wake both Lalisa and Hanbin up, tangled all around each other. Jaewon’s another story— when the high wears off and he’s left dreadfully grumpy, hungover and mildly dead, it’s close to impossible getting any cooperation from him. He doesn’t even notice the others’ little querela, neither the stranger’s body lapped against his own. It takes the little group an extended length of time to first, wake up and function correctly with several rounds of frosty milk and Coco pops (Hanbin definitely didn’t poured milk all over himself instead of the bowl, he _didn’t _), then, at last— clean the apartment up. They manage, however difficult the task may have been. Amongst them, Chanwoo is especially threatening when he feels like it, and most of the partiers didn’t linger long enough to experience his post _drank-until-I-felt-life-leave-my-body_ wrath.__

__There’s still no sight of Junhoe. Jiwon’s drugs may have or may have not knocked him out for the day so they could have some time to actually clean the horrid mess people left behind._ _

__“You have work, don’t you?”_ _

__Hanbin’s still on the floor. The moped floor, to be exact. He doesn’t feel all that good, but it’s good enough considering the amount of alcohol his body had to purge out of his system. Lalisa’s cheek is smashed against his abdomen, her hair a mess of knotted locks. Contrary to the rest of their group, she’s alright— had a cup maybe two of liquor before calling it a night and snoring until the first lights. The problem though, like always, is that she simply didn’t get enough sleep. She never does._ _

__“I don’t,” Hanbin frowns._ _

__Does he?_ _

__He doesn’t fucking know._ _

__“Do I?”_ _

__“I’m asking you.”_ _

__Lalisa lifts her head to look at him with raised brows and a dumb look on her face. He wouldn’t have drunk so much if he did have work tonight now, would he? Hanbin isn’t so sure anymore._ _

__At last, the girl shrugs her bony shoulders. “Whatever.”_ _

__Like that, she goes back to sleep, and Hanbin uses that as an excuse to not move until Junhoe appears on the living room, half groggy, half pissed off to all heavens and threatens to call the cops on their asses if they don’t get the fuck out of there real quick._ _

____

☘

Rush hours always make Jiwon want to dig a ten feet deep hole to burry himself in. He can’t handle the people, too many orders, his aunt telling him to either fasten his path or fuck off somewhere he won’t bother the other workers. Jiwon can’t handle rush hours, and that is why he’s quit the job long ago and given it to Hanbin.

“Shit, table five or four?” 

Mumbling under his breath, he carries the plates, zigzagging through tables and expertly swinging his body different ways trying to avoid other waiters and waitresses. The cook shouts something from behind, distant and incoherent sounds for most, but Hanbin’s used to it and manages to understand anyway. Table five it is, then. 

“Have a good meal, miss,” he says once the plates are in front of the customer, honey smile on his lips, bowing just a little before turning away.

Turns out he didn’t have to work, yesterday. Lalisa was just fucking with him, as always— and it worked. Hanbin did come yesterday, still dazed, nauseous and wobbly in the knees only to realize it was his day off and he just got played _again_. 

He was glad nonetheless. Puking in the cook’s food before serving it is something he’d rather never, ever do.

Hanbin doesn’t know how he manages but somehow, he does. He’s stopped counting lost jobs and angry managers, all the times he’s been kicked out of his posts because he’s either slacked off too often or simply couldn’t be assed showing up. Here though, things roll differently— Jiwon’s aunt is one of them, a tired old lady who smokes the pot she lovingly grows herself and curses out their crooked politicians. Over the years, her restaurant has become a safe haven for the cast out youth, every soul who didn’t have somewhere to belong. It’s a steady paycheck for honest work. 

A hand raises in the far back of the dining place. Hanbin notices it faster than the waitress behind. He gets to the customer first.

“Hey.” The man smiles, flash of white teeth like a ray of sunlight. Fair skin and cream-colored hair, black rings in both his nostrils. Overall, he’s a sharp little thing, edges made to hurt, good-looking the way television and big corporations want them to be, too clean, too polished for a place like this. “Is it too late to order the breakfast menu?” 

“It’s eight pm,” Hanbin deadpans. 

“Right. Still had to try.” 

The guy laughs quietly to himself, reaching for the menu once again. Hanbin glances around, unsure whether he should let him make his choice here or do rounds and see if others need him. He decides against fleeing, instead stays and waits. At last, the guy finally makes up his mind, so Hanbin quietly nods and tells him he’ll be right back.

The night wears on rather quickly. He wraps his shift with a lot less on his mind. It’s almost midnight and the restaurant is quieter than it has been all night, letting him mope the floors and clean up in peace. Hanbin swirls the broom around, sweeping the tiles until they glow their usual chestnut shade. A corner of his mind, the stubborn, packed with godawful visions of the night before keeps reminding him that Song Yunhyeong held his dick between his tattooed fingers and helped him piss right because he was too far gone to do it himself— that he should be ashamed of it.

Hanbin only mopes harder and takes his nerves out on every table he has yet to clean.

☘

The night’s pitch-black and his phone tells him it’s half past eleven when he finally closes behind him and takes a deep breath of fresh, crisp air. It’s still raining – weak droplets now and then, but the already weeks old downpour doesn’t seem to go away any time soon.

There’s a stiffness in his knees and a dull pain in his lower back he ignores, pushing his hood over his head and burying his hands inside the pockets of his jogging. He’s about to walk away from the restaurant when a flicker of light catches his attention on the other side of the sidewalk. A few feet away, another hooded figure smoking. First instinct tells him to be on his guards and just go on his way, so he does— meanwhile, the silhouette suddenly detaches itself from the shadows and slowly jogs towards Hanbin.

“Wait up.” 

Hanbin keeps his face straight, hesitantly turning on his heels to face the guy. He’s got his fair share of drunk fist fights with strangers in dark alleys or wasted bastards trying to force their way in his pants to know what to expect, but the possible scenarios his mind warned him about lose all likeliness when the man removes his hood.

“ _You_?” Hanbin’s eyebrows shot up on their own. He slowly unclenches his fists in his pockets, relaxing just a tiny bit. 

“Yeah, sorry.” He puffs out a soft laugh, eyes trailing all over him with a shiny glint to them. “I have something for you.” 

It’s earlier’s customer, the idol-looking, smooth-skin and dimples guy. At first sight, nothing violent about his demeanor, but Hanbin knows better than trusting doe eyes and sweet smiles. He nods, eyebrows knitted together, but doesn’t move. 

“Donghyuk, by the way. Kim Donghyuk,” the creamy blonde says with an easy smile. 

Hanbin swallows back the _I don’t really care_ wanting to force its way past his lips. Donghyuk, or whatever, proceeds to pat several time his front and back pockets, before making a little ‘ah!’ sound and shoving his hand to take what he’s been looking for. There’s a split second during which Hanbin thinks the guy’s about to take out a knife or a gun and his brain sends him into panic mode, but it’s short-lived and the thought vanishes as soon as Donghyuk retrieves his hand, opening his palm to reveal what is inside.

A pack of Marlboro cigarettes. 

Donghyuk’s smile is suddenly more spice than sugar. “A gift. From the cashier.” 

Fuck. 

Hanbin’s lips fall open but he doesn’t have anything to respond. Marlboros are for molly, and they rarely get those because that shit is always laced with a scary lot of others things and Minho’s last experience with Mix&Match’s molly is proof enough. He feels suddenly tense, a prickling shiver running down his spine. Song Yunhyeong’s gifting him molly—it feels off. He’s hesitating, chewing on the insides of his cheeks and Donghyuk catches on it quick.

Laughing, he shakes the pack of cigs in front of his nose, wetting his lips before saying with a playful tone. “No worries, dude. It’s pure stuff, but he’s personally cut it with coke. Said it’s your favorite or something, I dunno.”

Hanbin’s eyes open wide. Pure MDMA isn’t a thing anymore—laced with coke, above all? It’s so, so easy to buy the lie when you’re twenty and looking for fun, but Hanbin isn’t to be fooled so easily. 

_What do you fucking want from me, Song Yunhyeong?_

“I’m good.” 

Donghyuk looks like he expected it. His dimples dug a little more on each cheek when his smile grows. He shrugs one shoulder, body loose and relaxed like he’s used to giving away top-quality dope to strangers. “Take it and throw it away for all I care. I’m just tired of walking around with that.” 

The guy doesn’t give any warning before abruptly chucking the thing at him-- Hanbin almost misses it, catches it thanks to reflexes he thought he killed long ago. The pack is neither light nor heavy, rather a comforting weight, just enough to have a good time once and still have some left for a few more times. He casts a conflicted look to the blonde, a prickle on his forearms and nibbling turmoil tucked beside his heart. 

Donghyuk’s smile is sharper on his lips when he tugs his hood back over his head, like a blade in the dark. He hums softly, satisfied, waving him goodbye. “See you ‘round, hyung.” 

He walks away, soon swallowed by shadowed alleys.

☘

“What’s up, shitface?”

Hanbin doesn’t answer, trailing off at a slow pace on the sidewalk. The lights are flickering on and off, giving an eerie aura to dimly lit, empty streets. He rubs at the right side of his chest, not answering at first. Donghyuk has long gone disappeared in the dark alleys of the city, and he’s been wandering aimlessly for about half an hour torturing his mushy brain as he tried to come up with a single reason why Song Yunhyeong would gift him perfectly fine, expensive molly. No one does that. No one in their right mind would do that— unless they expect something back.

_He helped you piss._

Hanbin feels the embryo of a painful migraine nestling behind the skin of his forehead. Jiwon’s weird, shaky blabbering on the other side of the phone just add to the throbbing of his head, enough to snap him out of his thoughts.

“Right,” he mutters, stopping on his tracks. A chilly breeze blows, a sudden reminder of dropping temperatures making him shudder hard. “I got free fucking molly. And it’s weird. It’s really weird and I’ll probably get jumped.”

Jiwon draws a breath, stuttering with what sounds like a forced laugh. ”Why would you get jumped?” 

“Cause I have a shitload of motherfucking mo—” 

Hanbin pauses mid-sentence, mid-motion. On the other side of the phone, muffled noises sounding a lot like choked off moans. A ragged breath, some very subtle sloppy sounds in the background. He knows exactly what it is, and counts to three before he opens his mouth again. 

“I’ll call you back in five minutes. Junhoe better make you cum by then, or I swear to god, Jiwon—” 

Jiwon’s complaints cut off suddenly when the line dies. Hanbin growls to himself, something about moms who should’ve swallowed some kids instead of pushing them out to grow up and be huge assholes. The next number he smashes on the keyboard of his phone is Minho’s, who accepts the call almost immediately.

“Bro. Bro, you won’t believe this,” Minho practically screeches in his ear. 

Hanbin winces, asks himself and all god high up why the fuck each and every single one of his friends are annoying little pricks set on frying all remaining braincells of his. 

“So, me and Lalisa were going home, right, and guess who the fuck we ran into! Remember the bald senior from high school who got his ass beat by Jiwon?” 

“I don’t care,” Hanbin answers flatly, words slipping past his lips and crumbling to the floor where he repeatedly stomps his foot. It doesn’t stop Minho, who doesn’t mind being ignored or not. He’s probably already high, he thinks. 

“And like, what the fuck, he was glaring at us and Lisa stopped, and she was like, I know you, dude, so I said, bitch of course you do, Jiwon punched his teeth out and his older brother then chased us around town and we had to hide for fucking days, so then she goes wow fuck that’s him! But then guess fucking what, Hanbin. Lalisa says she fucking sucked his dick last night. Which means the fucker was there! Under Junhoe’s own roof. Life’s really weird, man.” 

He’s high. It’s old news.

Sometimes Hanbin thinks it’s too much. Sometimes he fears one of them is going to take one dose too many and drop dead and their world is going to fall apart right then. It’s happened before— some years ago, and for a while, they didn’t know what to do. Hung out mechanical, silent, and that one friend supposed to split white lines and start the fun suddenly wasn’t there and it felt like he never truly existed and they were just coming down from the biggest trip they ever had. 

He doesn’t want to go through that again. 

“I’m coming over,” he barks over Minho’s screeching, stating a fact like he’d command an order, and it catches Minho off guard because his sudden rambling comes to a halt.  
There’s a pause, then the sound of laughter on the other side of the line. “You got shit with you?” 

Hanbin curses himself out. Of course. Maybe Minho isn’t _that_ high. “No.” 

“Yeah, right. We’re at Lisa’s,” Minho snorts. There’s the sound of shouting behind him, some more sizzling like he’s going underground or the line is simply just shit. “Or at least, going to be. We’re like..” He stops, pants a little. “We’re on an adventure, my guy.” 

That is, by far, the most alarming thing Hanbin has heard today. Last time they went on an adventure... Hanbin bites down on the inside of his cheeks, puffing out a good portion of air from his nose until his lungs deflated completely. 

“Don’t fucking die. And don’t let Lisa die either. Catch you later.” 

Minho’s answer is swallowed by the crackles of the line, so Hanbin hangs up. There’s a moth crashing again and again against the streetlight by his side, a rhythmic _biz, biz_ every time the bug fries his frail wings and dies a little more. The cold bites at his fingers, red and numb from being exposed so long in the frosty air. Hanbin feels the weight of the Marlboro pack in his pocket like a mass hooked to his feet, something to remind him he’s going down and there’s nothing he can do about it.

It starts raining when he takes his first step into the dark.

☘

Lalisa lives in a bird-cage studio, even though she wears Gucci and walks in ten different pairs of Doc Martens and drowns herself in Vivienne Westwood jewelry. She’s a rich motherfucker, but resides a beatdown, crumpled piece of shit flat and they all stopped wondering why long ago.

She giggles like a five-year old, but smokes and drinks like an old fat truck driver. “So, we didn’t die.” 

Minho’s lounged all over bed, wrapped in the pure, lilac velvet sheets. He’s munching on a half-smoked spliff, while Lalisa plays with the ice cubs in a glass full of whiskey. Hanbin’s brow keeps twitching at the sight of her with that big cup full of brown. He thinks she’s some kind of monster, because no one even thinks about drinking so much whiskey in one setting, but here she motherfucking is.

“Of course. We couldn’t die when Hanbin managed to snatch us a great deal,” Minho nods, a playful smirk to his lips and knowing glint in his watery eyes. 

“Fuck you both,” he grumbles, sitting cross-legged on the floor. His eyes narrow, looking at them respectively wary and apprehensive. 

He knows they’ll make him bend his own set of rules, he just doesn’t know how long it would take. 

“Come on!” urges Lalisa, setting her glass down to creep to his side. Her eyelids are a glossy shade of red, some glitter on her cheeks and fancy lipstick the same color as her fluid, pretty silk dress. “Show us, Binnie. Share the fun.” 

Hanbin wishes Jiwon would be there. He did call him again, and as it turned out, the guy couldn’t make it. Something about a romantic dinner or some shit like that. Somehow, Jiwon would’ve been their anchor to reality. He never says no to good stuff, but he’s got that instinct, that strange seventh sense of his precisely aware of when enough is enough before it gets scary. 

Right now though, it’s just him and Minho and Lalisa, none too wise or giving a single shit about dangers.

Hanbin’s last resolve crumbles down when he glances at Minho and Minho smiles that wide, stupid grin of his. 

“Shit. Whatever, I don’t care,” he grumbles. Dives a hand inside the pocket of his jacket and grabs the pack of cigarette right before he flings it on Lalisa’s lap. 

Their eyes go wide, mouths forming full _O_ s. Lalisa eyes the pack almost in awe, glitter shining under the lights of her room as she looks at Hanbin, then her lap, Hanbin, and her lap again. “Wow.” 

“Is that what I think it is?” 

Minho’s whole body looks like it is vibrating at the sight of the Marlboro pack, because it is exactly what he think it is—only so much better. It’s Molly, which caused him the most terrifying bad trip and a ticket to the hospital some weeks ago, Molly he swore he’d never take again but Molly he craves nonetheless. Hanbin thinks if he tells him that it’s cut with cocaine, Minho’s heart might just burst out of his damn chest right there and then. 

As they both start yelling over one another and trying to snatch the thing out of their each other’s hands, Hanbin slumps back on the worn-out, mushy couch he’s on. Their bickering is nothing he isn’t used to, but his mind reels back flashes of Junhoe’s birthday party and he suddenly wants to go comatose until the next day. 

Song Yunhyeong still doesn’t want to leave his head. Or his dick, for the matter. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t jerk off at least twice since the bathroom incident, both times his thoughts clouded with fantasies of tattooed hands all over his body. Of that voice rasping angry words in his ears, those eyes eating him up, swallowing him whole--

“…bin. Hanbin, motherfucker.” 

Minho punches his shoulder half-heartedly, not enough to do damage but enough to hurt and steal him away from his lustful daydream. Hanbin growls curses under his breath and rubs at his sore limb, shooting an annoyed glare at Minho. The latter grins, toothy and joyful, and Hanbin isn’t even surprised he’s already got his clothes off and sits there stupidly with only his briefs and many necklaces on. Lalisa’s just by his side, bouncing on her knees with the plasticized bag in her hand, focused on gently opening it. 

“You’re going to get shitfaced now?” he asks pointedly, a pang of irritation he can’t quite understand shooting through him.

Lalisa’s neck bones pop with a soft sound when she looks up to glare at him. “No, asshole. I asked you where you got this from.” 

There’s a moment during which Hanbin considers lying, but the thought fades quickly. He shrugs, “dunno, Someone offered it to me.” 

“What kind of stupid fuck would give away molly like that?” 

Hanbin repeats the motion, this time both shoulders lifting. “A very, very rich one. You know a Song Yunhyeong, hyung?” 

He doesn’t expect much of an answer, so he isn’t surprised when the guy shakes his head before he even takes time to think about it. He’d tell him if he did, Hanbin has no doubt, so he doesn’t push further into the question. Lalisa, though— the Thai girl is watching him with a mischievous glint to her eyes rimmed with black, a little smirk carved itself on her porcelain face.

“The Song Yunhyeong?” A pause, bringing suspense as she wiggles her brows suggestively. “The one who held your dick and helped you piss?” 

“What the _fuck_.” 

Hanbin curses himself. Of course she heard him, the fucking creep. She wasn’t truly sleeping, at Junhoe’s birthday party, and her weird brain did its weird thing where it’s weirdly able to hear and remember stuff going around even without Lalisa realizing it. Minho’s gaze is mildly curious, tiny sparks of confusion but mostly his usual boredom— he plants his elbow on his knee as he rests his face against the palm of his hand, waiting sternly. 

“Do fucking tell me,” he presses, smirking.

There’s really no way out of this. Hanbin buries himself further in the soft depth of the couch. Lalisa and Minho are sat cross-legged and impatient in front of him like kindergarten kids waiting for a story before nap time. It’s weirdly accurate— they probably won’t remember much of it anyway if they decide to shoot Yunhyeong’s stuff afterwards. Hanbin does end up telling him. 

_He’s M &M’s new cashier, and he gives me the fucking creep, but he’s also fucking hot so there’s that. I thought he wouldn’t know about the drugs so I didn’t ask, but he did fucking know, and slipped dope in the bags without me realizing it. Then I met him again at Junhoe’s party, in the bathroom, and he was there, selling H to some junkie, and I was drunk out of my fucking mind and couldn’t even walk straight let alone piss correctly so here is, Song Yunhyeong, my fucking hero, wrapping his hand around my dick like it’s no biggie and ordering me to fucking piss because he “ain’t go all night”. Then tonight, I’m about to walk home, and some pretty guy just walks to me and gives me the pack and says it’s from the fucking cashier, a gift or something because he knows coke one of my favorite thing and he’s laced the molly, pure motherfucking molly, with some. Then he splits and I’m all alone again wondering what the fuck happened and I call Jiwon and he is getting blown by Junhoe so I hang up and call Minho and here I motherfucking am_

Yeah, that is pretty much all of the story. 

“Damn. Wish someone would hold my dick for me to piss and offer me good stuff,” Lalisa says with a long, dramatic sigh— then the conversation is over, dropped and forgotten and they don’t mention Song Yunhyeong anymore. 

Later that night, when it’s well past two and they’re squished together on Lalisa’s bed, a light buzz in their veins and sleep coming their way, Minho suddenly jerks up. He’s lying in between the other two, their heads lolling off his shoulders in the motion. 

“Next Friday. We’re going to fucking rave,” he states with a firm determination to his voice, steadying his tone back to normal. 

Hanbin’s too damn tired to care, he is. He lifts his own empty glass of whiskey up in a silent agreement, the one he doesn’t know how and why and when it landed in his hands, and when Lalisa throws her hands in the air and laughs out loud, they all know it’s settled. 

Next Friday, they’ll rave, and they’ll have Song Yunhyeong’s molly to have fun with.


	4. tomorrow's got your name carved in gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> throw a few descriptive paragraphs of non-sense, add some more fancy sentences and make fake ass in-deep analysis of ur characters psyche just to call it to character development only so u can ignore the plotholes for a while,,,, cheers to that and hope u enjoy this chapter xoxo

There’s a reason why Hanbin never does introspection. There’s a reason why he never, ever sits down and _thinks_ about life and death and everything in between.

The bus stops one second, two, then it’s going again.

Public transportation is something he’s always simultaneously despised and loved. When he was younger, he used it the few times he bothered to force his tired limps out of the bed and go to school, and hated it with all his guts. As he got older, dropped out of university and ditched any semblance of normal adult life one can have, buses and subways became a means to escape time and space for a little while. The fourth dimension, or something along those lines. 

Introspection’s shit, but so are many others things Hanbin already indulges in.

He sits at the far back of the bus, mostly deserted at this hour of the night. There are few others— a drunk, homeless man always lurking around and two young students, he assumes, coming back from a party. They stink of a lot of illegal stuff, laugh loudly, and they’d be in a huge lot of trouble if controls were made, but youth and insouciance came hand in hand and Hanbin misses that kind of adrenaline rush. High school, drama, running away from your problems and authority just for the thrill of it, summer nights and warm winters. Friends, lovers.

Now, what?

Now, nothing much. 

_First layer peeled, how does that feel? Keep going._

Sitting there and watching strangers, Hanbin realizes there’s a little of him in both scenarios. Though he’s neither a student nor a homeless drug addict, he’s not exactly far from either. Dropped out of university long ago and tiptoeing around the lines separating _casual drug consumption_ and _hooked up_. Times to times there’s this itch, invisible fingers pinching his arteries, anxiety clogging up his mind and he sees no other solution than sticking needles to his veins, but he wouldn’t call _that_ dependency. Hanbin knows what it looks like and how you just cross that line. He’s seen it happen around him one too many times not to be aware, not to take precaution. 

_Now, dig a little more._

He grinds three smooth rocks between his palms, looking up at the polluted skies.

Seoul’s quiet at night, only if you stop paying attention to most things. In the empty, hazy air of the bus, strange ghosts roam, invisible to others perhaps, but if Hanbin tires hard enough, he can _feel_ them. 

Or maybe he’s just taken a dose higher than usual. 

The bus stops. The smelly, dirt-covered old man staggers out difficultly. Hanbin watches him sit down on the cold, metallic bench of the bus stop. Their eyes meet as the motor cuffs, and Hanbin feels a weird twitch of his gut at the sight of him alone and miserable there, waiting for another bus that won’t come because he’s got no home.

Hanbin has places to go, he has. And he’s got people, he does. 

Friends, enemies, ex-lovers, drug dealers, acquittances, family, a long list of faces and names he can on occasion count on, and others, think about when loneliness cuts deeper than usual. Better yet— people he can reach out to, physical beings there for him and places to hide. His hums quietly to himself, counting. Slowly. Faces appearing one after another in his mind. Jiwon. Jaewon. Minho. They’re something, aren’t they? The four of them. Strays kicked out of the same litter. A fucked-up little bunch, Jiwon’s heart too big for his chest, Jaewon’s rotten and misshaped, while Minho tries hard day after day making his own stop beating. Hanbin, well, they say he’s got a hole where something used to be. 

They manage, though, they always do. And Hanbin knows they’re there, somewhere, anywhere. They’ll always be, but life is inconsistent and shit and there’s no real way to be sure of it. Hanbin’d cling to that feather hope nonetheless.

The terminus is two stops away. Hanbin feels a familiar feeling creeping up his skin and tightening his throat, a distant ache in his chest. 

He thinks about the homeless man in the bus station and realizes dwelling over philosophical shit in a shitty bus traveling through the shitty parts of Seoul definitely sucks and he isn’t fond of it at fucking all.

_Got what you deserved. Fuck introspection._

☘

“You really are shit at this.”

Jaewon rolls his eyes all the way back, puffing some strands of jet-black hair out of his sight. He squirms a little closer to Hanbin which is hard enough considering how fucking small the bathtub they’re squeezed inside is, passing over the blunt with a pinch between his eyebrows. He’d die and come back to life only to die once again before admitting he’s bad at rolling joints, so he keeps quiet, watching Hanbin work magic with pouting lips.

“See,” Hanbin speaks with a hushed voice, casting a sideway glance to Jaewon. “That’s how you fucking do it, kid.”

“I’m like, thirty years older than you or something.” 

Hanbin rolls his eyes. “You still suck at basic stuff, hyung.”

The bathroom they’re stuck in smells of fried onion rice and a bunch of other stuff he doesn’t want to name. It is a small, narrow room, with just enough place for a dirty bathtub, toilets, and a weird-looking piece of furniture—the washbasin, certainly. The tiles are a faded pink the dim yellow lightbulb above their head rather turns into a shiny piss color and it has been nibbling the back of Hanbin’s mind for a while now. It’s fugly. It’s plain fucking ugly—an horrendous sight. He gives one final lick to the rolling paper before closing the thing and handing it back to Jaewon, deciding it’s best for now he ignores the owner’s utter lack of self-respect and design choices.

Jaewon’s eyes suddenly shine like strings of fairy lights. “Shit, you’re the best.”

Hanbin huffs appreciatively, a small smile lifting the far corner of his lips.

There are, undoubtably, more advantages than not in slipping uninvited into complete strangers’ houses and parties. There are, there should be, and the both of them enjoyed themselves with pretty cocktails and pretty girls, up until they realized they had ran into fucking trouble head first, as per usual. Their former dealer, to whom they owe a shitload of money was here too and it was a matter of seconds before he noticed them— and smashed both their heads straight into concrete. 

“So…” 

“So we’re not getting out until the party’s dead,” Jaewon finishes sternly, eying him quickly. He’s already stuck the joint between his lips, cupping his hands around his mouth and connecting the lighter’s flame to the tip. 

Hanbin rolls his eyes. Doesn’t press— he isn’t in any particular mood to get his ass handed back to him black and blue. Sure, he’s no stranger to fights and can take care of his own, but that ex-dealer of them is one tough fucker and he isn’t exactly sure he could do anything against that huge beast. And Jaewon’s worth shit when it comes to fists and kicks. 

So there they remain, Jaewon smoking and telling him about things he really shouldn’t, and Hanbin listening even if his chest aches and his shaking hands want nothing more than hold Jaewon’s. 

They’re a strange pair, they are. Dating for as long as anyone in town can remember, up until one day they didn’t anymore. No one dared ask, but they did have their twisted fantasies about it, because the two of them were the sun and the moon-- inseparable souls. Hanbin sometimes forgets the look on Jaewon’s pretty face that night they broke up, the ugly words which fell from his mouth when he crawls back to him in the late hours of the night. And because Jaewon lets him in every time, Hanbin keeps coming back. Tonight wouldn’t have been any different if Jaewon weren’t about to exit his flat and join this party when Hanbin stumbled upon him. 

He’s stopped listening the boy next to him rant, stuck in a long corridor in the far back of his thoughts. It takes two loud bangs against the bathroom’s doors and a shout to snatch him away from those. 

“He found us.” Jaewon’s brows are pinched together, but he doesn’t look particularly scared. 

“Get the fuck out.” 

The voice is muffled by the loud music reverberating through the walls, but it’s vicious and loud enough for them to get the words— above all, the intention. Hanbin’s stomach does a fluttery, wing-flapping thing, and _shit_ that’s weird. He frowns, body moving before he can wrap his mind around it. 

Jaewon’s fingers urge forward to grab the hem of his shirt, scowling. “What d’you think you’re doing?” 

“Opening the door,” he answers easily, mirroring his expression with a scowl of his own. 

The boy opens his mouth but closes it rather quickly: stays silent, even though he’s still gripping his shirt and doesn’t look like he’s about to let go. 

At last, Jaewon puffs out an annoyed sigh. “We die like men. Go.” 

Hanbin flashes him a wry grin. His gut feeling tells him they won’t really die tonight because the guy behind the door isn’t their dealer— as a matter of fact, he surely doesn’t even remember them, too fucked up on his own goods. So Hanbin takes the few tiny steps necessary and crosses the bathroom, fingers wrapping around the door handle hesitantly. He startles a bit when the banging goes off, this time louder, but third time’s the charm and Hanbin recognizes the low dripping tones in the stranger’s voice. _That_ unique snarl and the way he rolls his syllables even when he’s just cursing— he grips firmly the handle and opens the door abruptly. 

Yeah, gut feeling was right.

Two fire pits bore into him, shooting ghost bullets Hanbin feels nonetheless. His breath catches in his throat but this time he’s felt it coming, and fights off the urge to take a step back when he glances up to the black-and-blue eyed fury. 

“Get out of the way,” Yunhyeong growls, brows frowned so hard they cast a threatening shadow over his eyes. 

Jaewon moves a bit in the bathtub, tilts his head to the side to get a better view of the man— Hanbin’s body hides most of him. Is that their dealer? It definitely doesn’t sound nor look like their dealer. The guy is about Hanbin’s height, wearing a black turtle-neck and tight-fit jeans with spiked-out boots— neon green hair, though it looks like it’s fading, his dark roots melting over the synthesized color. Well, the usual rude and drugged-out punk, Jaewon thinks. He sits back in the bathtub, unbothered and smirking around his joint, but body taunt, ready to dash out the second it got ugly.

Jaewon _never_ deals with ugly. 

The guy pushes Hanbin out of the way, and Hanbin goes stumbling back. For a second Jaewon straightens up, lips pursing down, before he catches sight of the barely contained grin spreading over his friend’s lips— feels himself relax again. Not a threat, then. 

The place is cramped and narrow, barely enough for two, so when a bunch of other people try forcing their way in, Yunhyeong kicks and snarls at their face and the door blasts shut in a matter of second. Hanbin whistles to himself. He moved out of harm way, now leans against the opposite wall, looking at Yunhyeong’s form appreciatively.

Somehow, some-fucking-how they end crossing paths again. Ultimately, it wasn’t intentional, nor premeditated— after all, Hanbin hadn’t planned on getting shit-faced tonight nor seeing the cashier, rather wanted a good night of sleep with Jaewon’s body wrapped around his. Unfortunately, that didn’t really happen. He doesn’t know which kind of party this one is, but from the amount of blown-out pupils and drugged teens he’s come across, Hanbin thinks it’s only natural Song Yunhyeong would want to sell his stuff around here. 

Except, Yunhyeong isn’t selling dope at all.

He’s flushing it down the fucking toilet.

“Motherfucker.”

Jaewon looks horrified, lips fallen apart in shock. Yunhyeong did just drop one huge amount of fucking top-quality dope in dirty water just to flush it away— and managed to keep his calm composure up while doing so. Hanbin’s lips are a thin line, and he can’t deny: he’s felt his own insides liquify at the sight of Yunhyeong wasting away his stash.

The cashier’s gaze is unnerving, his face not showing any emotion he might feel. He slowly straightens up, squaring his chest for a quick second, but as his eyes flicker around, his shoulders slump down a bit. He moves quick, jumps inside the bathtub with no consideration whatsoever for the body within— Jaewon yelps a little, startled, but venom comes creeping right back and soils his pretty face, twisting his features with fury. 

“You asshole,” he bites— doesn’t move, though, even if Yunhyeong’s boots almost crushed his fingers to a bloody pulp. “Watch the fuck out.” 

The guy barely looks at him. Hanbin wonders if Yunhyeong’s the kind of impulsive fucker who’d lash out at anyone and anything for the tiniest thing, if he’d kick Jaewon’s pretty face and punch his teeth out. If he would have to step in, maybe take a punch or two just to know what Yunhyeong’s knuckles against his jaw would feel— if he’d punch him the way he held his dick. Hanbin startles. The comparison’s fucking dumb and he curses himself out for it, uncrossing his arms and moving a bit. 

Yunhyeong doesn’t pay attention to Jaewon. His boots come in handy again when he kicks open the piece of shit, small window of the bathroom. The smell of fire-smoke instantly fill their nostrils as ice-cold wind blows in. 

There are people shouting over the music, the sound of glass breaking into thousand pieces. The black skies are glowing orange— perhaps a campfire, or something way more dangerous and out of control. 

Song Yunhyeong stretches his body, clasped hands extended to the ceiling. His shirt lifts up a bit, black lines peeking out— Hanbin’s heart goes off a little. He glances over his shoulder, eyes lingering over Hanbin’s form for a second, endless pits of black void sucking the breath straight out of Hanbin’s throat. 

_What now, Song Yunhyeong? What do you want from me?_

They all remain silent for a short infinity of time, the only sounds coming from the open window.

“Cops are here.” 

Oh. 

_Oh_. 

Yunhyeong’s grin is mischievous, sly little thing uplifting the corner of his lips. “I suggest you two fuck off quick.” 

Then he’s gone, a heartbeat later, as he jumps out the window and Hanbin barely manages to stop himself from moving forward. 

_Wait. Tell me why you’ve gifted me drugs._

“Crazy fucker,” Jaewon hisses through his teeth. Merely paying mind to the threat, cops being down there – sure, what the fuck ever - and glances lazily out the window. Two stories up, and no sign of Song Yunhyeong. Maybe he’s fallen into the fucking fire, he thinks, maybe he’s crawled back to the pits of hell where he belongs. Whichever, he doesn’t really care. 

Hanbin, though. When Jaewon looks up, he’s smiling one ear to another, an ecstatic glint to his eyes as he strides over to the bathtub in no time. 

“Let’s split, too. I’ve got a shitload of weed on me and I don’t wanna get busted,” he says, leaning down to grab Jaewon’s face between his palms and fuck, that’s gross. Didn’t he piss like ten minutes ago? 

Jaewon swats his hands away angrily, not much because of the fact he didn’t fucking wash them after emptying his bladder, but rather for the sudden burst of energy, smile carving itself on his face, the way it took a single appearance and a few words coming from the neon asshole to uplift Hanbin’s mood and bring out life in him. It’s not exactly jealousy, fuck, they’re way past that, and there’s _nothing_ to be jealous for, but Jaewon can’t help the low, buzzing feeling rushing through in his veins.

“I’m not jumping down that fucking window,” he protests more vigorously than he intended, but he knows there’s not much of a choice here. And Jaewon would rather break both legs than deal with any sort of law enforcement authority, so he doesn’t get angry when Hanbin snickers at his expense and forces him on his feet. “Fuck you. You better fucking catch me or else—"

Hanbin grins the way he used to when he pulled those stupid stunts just to impress him in the early stages of their relationship, young love and flirting and sweet romance shit— Jaewon doesn’t expect the pinch of his heart, but it’s there regardless of his fucking opinion on the matter. 

“Of course, babe. Meet you down there,” then he’s suddenly out of the damn window before Jaewon can warn him to watch the fuck out. 

He clicks his tongue in annoyance, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. He glances back to the toilets where that bitch of a man flushed his drugs, and grimaces. “Asshole,” he mutters, swinging a leg above the edge of the window too as chaos erupts downstairs.

☘

“Run, you fucking asshole.”

Jaewon is yelling to cover the sounds of police vehicles and the panicked crowds, but it’s no use when Hanbin’s laughing his ass off and almost slowing his pace down.

Their boots hit the ground repetitively, quick stomps over wet flagstones in dark alleys. They’ve successfully managed to escape the damned party, though not entirely in one piece: Hanbin, dumb fucking asshole, managed to scratch elbows and knees as he fell. Didn’t he do it enough already not to hurt himself in the process anymore, haven’t they fled from problems many times already to master the art of fucking off quick? He _did_ catch Jaewon, though they ended up in dirt and mud, ruining their clothes, but it didn’t really matter when a cop caught sight of them and decided they looked fucking suspicious lying there.

Well, Jaewon was smoking a very illegal joint right in front of policemen.

Now they’re running through crowded streets, Hanbin laughing his lungs away as tiny droplets start falling from above. Jaewon wants to be mad, he kind of fucking _is_ with the way his favorite pair of skinny jeans is torn and muddied just a little lesser than his sweater, but he kind of fucking _can’t_. 

“Did you see the guy’s _face_?” 

Hanbin all but yells, a green leaf and some bits of grass in his hair, brown patches of dirt on his white-shirt. Breathless and free, wind carrying his laugh away. He’s _beautiful_. Jaewon doesn’t know what to do with that information other than hope it’s weed and not his heart speaking. They’re supposed to be over, aren’t they? They are, he knows, but Hanbin is Hanbin, and there will always be some place from him in Jaewon’s heart so he doesn’t question it anymore.

Jaewon’s run comes to halt when he realizes they aren’t being chased anymore. Hanbin joins him soon after, bending in half as his hands rest on his knees to catch his breath.

The stars shine bright, that night. Jaewon doesn’t give a shit about stars, but they’re somehow a very reassuring presence right now. The city’s vibrant and lively. Red, green and orange lights all around, big commercial screens and cars coming and going. Few people pay attention to them at this hour, a little after midnight. Seoul’s insomniac like the rest of them, pulsating at its own rhythm. 

Jaewon turns to Hanbin, sliding a freshly lit cig between his lips as he tucks his dirtied shirt back into his jeans. 

“Let’s go home.”

Hanbin peeks at him discreetly from under his lashes, easy grin falling back into place. Sheepish and small, those he keeps for Jaewon and Jaewon only. 

“Let’s go home.”

☘

Home is a strange, complicated thing to those who grew up with no concept whatsoever of the notion, except a very materialistic one. Hanbin has his own set of hygiene products at Jaewon’s and clothes hanging around, his own Playstation controller, key doubles, favorite brand of cereals and his side of the bed. But he doesn’t _live_ there, not in its usual meaning. Sure thing, everyone thinks otherwise – Jaewon included – but lately, Hanbin has tried to stop relying so much on Jaewon and Jaewon’s flat and Jaewon’s everything.

There’s a word in the far back in his mind for it, but Hanbin doesn’t want to think about it— especially not right now. 

Jaewon brushes his teeth aggressively. How one does that, Hanbin has no idea, but he knows for a fact that the guy’s toothbrushes never last longer than two weeks. They’re standing shoulder to shoulder in the little bathroom, Jaewon already in his underwear and Hanbin still clothed. 

“What?”

Hanbin scrunches his nose, speaking around his own toothbrush. “What, what?”

“Stop fucking staring at me,” Jaewon shoots back, threats in his tone. Doesn’t really work when he’s standing half-naked and with pink hair clips keeping his fringe away from his eyes and the avocado nose mask still there. 

Hanbin laughs, then leans down to spit in the washbasin. Washes his mouth with water, his face. Jaewon is still harshly cleaning his already white, spotless teeth, but he maniacally keeps up with what dentists usually advice— at least three damn minutes each night. Over time they’ve grown used to one another’s strange bathroom routines: Hanbin’s quicker to brush his teeth but he needs an eternity to use the loo or slip into his pajamas. They’re scheduled to the last second, a precise machinery they’ve mastered over time so that they didn’t bump into each other as they used to in the very beginning. They work just fine, now.

Hanbin’s still kind of lost in his trail of thoughts when Jaewon viciously pokes him in the ribs. He yelps, groans a little when rubbing the sore skin.

“I asked you something. What’s up with the face?”

Hanbin’s gaze gets evasive, his chest cooling suddenly. “Nothing,” he mutters, totally unconvincing. 

He’s straightens his back, but keeps his eyes pointedly away from Jaewon’s. They’re kind of overwhelming when he gets serious and he’s asking, no, _demanding_ the truth, ready to force it out of your mouth because he’s got no patience when it comes down to these things. Hanbin feels uncomfortable, standing there and bringing stupid matters under the guy’s roof. He’s done so very often, and Jaewon never cared much about it, but lately it’s been nagging the back of Hanbin’s mind, how he’s just there to eat and shit and has been doing so and Jaewon keeps letting him without asking anything in return.

_Parasite. It’s called a parasite._

It keeps pestering him. Won’t stop.

Because Jaewon is still glaring at him like he’d definitively rip his throat out if he doesn’t get talking right about now, Hanbin gives up. He sighs. Lungs deflating, creating space his heart badly needs.

“Why d’you keep letting me crash here?”

He’s said it in one single breath, barely above a whisper, still not making eye-contact. There’s silence, suddenly, and Hanbin realizes Jaewon has stopped brushing his damn teeth. Maybe it’s worth the shot. He looks up— catches two black pools full of fury. Ah, shit. 

Hanbin tries a very apologetic, tiny small, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry.”

It used to be easier— living under the same roof when their relationship was still a thing made sense. Now, it’s just another bad habit Hanbin has to crack down and get rid off. 

Jaewon spits the toothpaste angrily. There’s a stiffness to his shoulders there wasn’t a second before, Hanbin wonders if he’s just ruined things for the night. If he’ll make him sleep in the free room rather than his own, the way he did when they fought for stupid stuff few years back.

“You’re stupid.” Jaewon’s usually good at controlling his emotions and hiding what he’s feeling: he’s learnt from an early age that first base survival needs him to be cold and detached. Right now though, he looks positively _mad_ — whether it’s as his own set of conflicted emotions, or at Hanbin, the latter doesn’t really know. “Guess, asshole.”

Hanbin doesn’t want to guess. He didn’t want to think about or bring it up in the first place, but _Jaewon_ made him do it. He’s too tired to argue, so shakes his head and plants a kiss swiftly against Jaewon’s temple and gets out of the bathroom before the guy can kick him in the balls for it.

He counts to two, and then it comes: Jaewon yelling _fuck you_ loud enough to shake the walls.

Grabbing his pack of smoke, he discreetly slips on the balcony. As he lights one, he realizes dumbly he’s just brushed his teeth and smoking now would be absolutely gross. Fuck it.

 _Parasite_. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore, not tonight.

 

 

Later, when he slips under the soft duvets, joining Jaewon who’s already drifting to sleep, guilt is another person’s weight and not his anymore. Hanbin’s too tired to hate his every decision, and still kind of giddy from the party and the turn of events, so it’s only natural when he presses against Jaewon’s body— wraps his arms around the slim, tattooed waist of the guy. 

“Alarm the fuck off,” is all Jaewon is able to utter to let him know that he’d kick his fucking ass if he forgets once again to kill all the alarms set at ungodly hours out of sheer manic habit.

“Roger that, chief.”

Jaewon hums, pleased as his body relaxes against the other’s, and dozes off immediately after. 

Hanbin doesn’t turn the alarms off. He stays awake until he can feel the very first vibrations of his phone to set it off. It doesn’t wake up Jaewon, and Hanbin makes sure he doesn’t either when he very carefully gets out of bed.

Outside, the sun isn’t up. It’s still raining. He’s still a piece of shit. Hanbin catches the first bus of the day without looking at the destination.


	5. neon, molly, cars (part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ikonics - please stay strong. we're in this together. i trust hanbin, i trust the boys, i trust ikon. we'll get through this, together. as 7 and some millions. we'll fight. we're here.
> 
> //
> 
> IM So sorry it took me this long to update but . aye this chapter gave me a really bad time and knocked me out of my desk sooo many times :,) I've decided to split it into 2 parts, otherwise i don't think i'll ever upload it lmao
> 
> anyway, here,, heads up for drug use, strong language, bad trips. enjoy!

Lalisa chain smokes rolled cigs and draws random shapes with a rock on concrete. She’s sat cross-legged on the cold hard ground with no care in the world for the pretty violet dress she has on for the night. By her side, leaned against the old shitty Kia is Minho, wearing a red and white stripped button-up shirt opened wide and revealing the swirling black and white tattoos on his chest and of course, that one pair of ugly ass leather loafers. Nice jeans and hair gelled back carefully—dressed up neatly and clean shaved by his own questionable standards, as if he weren’t going to get shitfaced in a couple of hours.

“Think he bailed on us?” Minho growls with twist of his lips, impatiently drumming his fingers against his left biceps. 

Lalisa shrugs unaffected and truthfully uncaring. Hanbin does bail on people—a shitty habit of his, especially during fun times—but she’s gotten kind of used to it, learning that it’s not inherently personal: rather a mix of various reasons or sometimes none at all, just life getting in the way.

“We can always find our shit elsewhere,” she mumbles around her cig, not looking up. “No biggie, man. Relax.” 

Minho gives an irritated snarl before turning entirely mute. The Thai girl steals a quick look at her friend and notices the hardness in his eyes, the rigid posture and uneasiness buzzing under his skin. That’s shit. It’s always shit planning to get high and plastered while being on edge, and Minho is painfully aware of the consequences, but here he is: angry and mopping because Hanbin isn’t there yet when he’s the one who is supposed to bring molly to the party.

They’re waiting in a deserted parking lot. The sky is dark and cloudless, just endless splashes of black ink above their head void of any illuminating stars. It’s pretty early still, roughly 10 pm, and they have at least some one-hour trip to where the rave takes place. Lalisa is slightly buzzed from the couple of Tequila shots they took earlier. She has some nice joints hidden between her tits and half a mind to smoke ‘em now, but manages her own impulses better than her friend.

“Look who’s finally fucking there,” Minho says, teeth bared with an angry twist of his mouth. “Took you long enough.” 

“Was working,” comes a raspy voice.

When Lalisa looks up she sees a walking corpse more than she sees her childhood friend. Bags hang heavy under Hanbin’s eyes, deep shade of purple, red rimmed eyes and barely a shimmer in his irises. Though he’s dressed nicely for the occasion too—black jeans and black tee and his worn-out, faded green Docs which she knows for a fact he only wears on special nights out. She feels her heart sinking a little, a pang of guilt for not showing up on his doorstep these past few days but guesses Hanbin is just exhausted as he usually is, insomnia and drugs and work taking their toll on him. Nothing serious, nothing bad. 

“Whatever,” she chips, grinning as she rushes to her feet. “Who dropped you?” 

“A friend,” Hanbin shrugs, then throws two packs of cigs to Minho who catches them easily, instincts never failing him. “Here. Enjoy your fucking drugs.” 

Mingho lights up. Lalisa claps happily, standing up. Hanbin follows them into misery just because they’ve followed him in worse, much worse places.

☘

Hanbin’s bad-trips aren’t always that bad. Sometimes he doesn’t even realize it’s happening, because the chimeras of chemicals mixed with his own fucked-up imagination can’t be half as bad as routine and his daily life. He doesn’t even mind them, but at times, they do get the best of him.

He inhales sharply when he feels teeth scratch at his jugular, fire burning softly in his abdomen.

Neon lights wash the place in shades of violent pinks, blues and greens—the rest is swallowed by darkness. Speedcore is usually something giving him day-lasting headaches, but tonight he feels like the music isn’t fast nor loud enough. Each thump of the bass makes the whole place vibrate and his own body complies, heartbeat matching the fast-paced rhythm of the tune. It has every person in the crowd trapped in a frantic trance— it’s oddly enhancing, the way bodies move, possessed by the diarrhea of sounds, the colored pills melting under tongues and the electric energy buzzing from one person to another.

Underground, illegal raves in the strangest parts of the city, narrow and damp places or abandoned subways— they always mean dirty fucks and acid trips for Hanbin.

He’s gotten himself both, and that’s all that matters at the moment. His vision is a mix of reality and acid-caused fantasy, with schemes of dripping colors and curving lines. He doesn’t know what he took or how much it was, doesn’t really care at this point: it’s been an hour and half and every good effect is finally hitting home. Expect it doesn’t feel as good as it does— a strange feeling of dread taking form inside him like a slithering dragon ready to eat him alive, sweat wetting his forehead. He ignores it all, dulls his senses with another quick swallow of 103 mg crystal.

The faceless man’s hands all over his body are steel instead of cotton candy. Hanbin looks away, casts a glance to the sweltering mob around. Lalisa is there, devoured by the crowd and dancing like a devil; Minho is a few feet away, topless, sweaty and so far gone he doesn’t even notice the girl grinding against his body. It’s okay. Everything’s okay for now, so he doesn’t worry about his friends and lets himself completely go in the arms of a stranger. 

Fervent fingers find their way under his shirt, brushing against his ribcage before settling against his hips. Hanbin wets his lips, looking up with hooded eyes to the man just as he jerks his hips against his. 

He’s faceless. Not really per say, but Hanbin’s brain has stopped picking up details and keeps shaping his surroundings the way it desires. Under the influence of acid, a lot of things stop making sense and he doesn’t question any of it. 

Not even when the man breathes close to his ear, his voice raspy and sharp just the way he likes and tells him about all the filthy things he wants to do with him. No, to him, Hanbin notices with a pang of hilarity and suddenly he can’t contain laughter bubbling in the back of his throat. He knows he’s gone, truly gone, when he believes it when he’s told he’d be fucked so good he’ll feel it for days and search the whole city for this one cock in particular because any one who’d come next would pale in comparison. Song Yunhyeong’s molly runs free and wild in his veins and blows out fireworks behind his lids, adds fire to his body and makes the world funnier than it is.

So he does the one thing he’s not supposed to do when drugged out and barely conscious of his own existence—drags the man to a dark, removed corner of the station. 

They pass long-stretched corridors with dead cameras hanging in every corner, colorful graffities tagged on filthy walls and signs hanging half-crooked to guide passengers through the stations. Right—they’re occupying a desolated subway station somewhere outside Seoul, in its forgotten, saturated and miserable suburbs. Hanbin feels like going down the tracks anyway and walking in the narrow and long tunnels full of nightmares and homeless people, but he remembers he’s not alone.

But. Then— 

Alone?

Then, Hanbin _realizes_. 

In the midst of a tuned down, somewhat controlled bad-trip he suddenly feels, with the same unyielding certainty than knowing earth gravitates around the sun that he is not _alone_. 

Hanbin stops dead in his tracks and sucks in a breath because he knows Song Yunhyeong is there, close, so close—he can sense it in the saturated particles of dope exploding in his veins and sending acid to his brain, and maybe that is exactly what this is. The cashier's hand-crafted drug recognizing its god and telling Hanbin to watch out. His head turns around in sharp motions and he feels suddenly a tension he has not felt in weeks—the thrill of being hunted by faceless predators therefore having to tiptoe in the dark wishing you don’t get caught. Hanbin relishes in the explosion of adrenaline in his entire being. He forgets about his company, forgets about the man who told him about fucking the daylights out of him and breaks out in a brusque sprint through the black tunnels of the subway station. 

Hanbin chases after ghosts and chimeras and doesn’t question it when his mind convinces him Song Yunhyeong’s there and he has to find him or something terrible will happen. His heart is wild and loud in his chest and beats with the same rhythm than the distant bass from yet another party song. Crude neon drawings and slogans painted on the walls glow in the dark: in Hanbin’s brain they appear material and solid and floating in the air like bad omens, threatening to launch at him and hunt him away from the endless tunnels. It punches him back into fake lucidity then right there and then. Acid licking at his brain and keeping it prisoner of its crushing effects.

The ground shakes underneath his feet and there’s the brusque and terrifying realization that he’s running on rail tracks where the subway passes and he’s going to get hit anytime soon because the high-speed beast is right here, just behind, on his heels. He has to find Song Yunhyeong—he has to. He exits the tunnels and finds himself in the grey cold corridors that connects one station to the next. Soon he ends up trapped in a crowd of dozens and dozens of bodies lost in the maddening speed of the amplified bass.

“Yunhyeong,” he whispers to the crowd, that single word swallowed instantly by the music.

He fists his own shirt . Hanbin doesn’t know how to breathe anymore. 

It’s really that simple: chemicals don’t belong in your body or they eat you up and take control of your mind and makes you forget you’re nothing but flesh and bones.

There are hundred of bodies moving out of rhythm and in the midst of all the chaos, Hanbin finds Song Yunhyeong staring at him and, suddenly, everything swirls into a black hole and disappears so it’s just the two of them in complete silence.

Drugs have fucked Hanbin’s senses and perception of the world, and he doesn’t know whether the man is close enough to share breaths of far, far away, on the other side of the makeshift dancefloor, hundreds of bodies separating them. It doesn’t affect the wave of relief washing over him as their eyes lock, soon replaced by electricity prickling over his skin. His heart is a wild animal trapped in a cage of bones—Hanbin feels the same way, except his cage is made of skin and smiles and there’s no way to escape them. He wants to reach out—to get to Song Yunhyeong— and when he does extend a hand he realizes the man has been standing there, facing him, the whole time. Hanbin breathes out harshly.

“You’re fucked up,” the cashier says, voice low yet so very loud. 

His blue contact is there, as fake as the green hair but both colors are a comfort to Hanbin, as odd as it sounds. How can it not be, when Yunhyeong is so cold and detached, stare hard as steel, no warmth in his eyes nor his eyes? Colors spill on his face and accentuate the sharpness of his features—he’s just skin to bone, Hanbin thinks. Perhaps there used to be a time when his cheeks were full and eyes lively, but those days are long gone. 

_Tell me about everything keeping you awake. Tell me about the monsters whispering in the corner of your rooms, the demons eating you up._

His fingers press against Yunhyeong’s cheek as he answers with a wry, bitter smile. “Am I not always.”

“Mine?” 

Hanbin shakes his head, glancing up. He searches for deception or anger in the other’s mismatched eyes: finds neither. Yunhyeong’s little smile is a cold thing.

“Thought so,” he says, closing in the space between them. “How long ago?” 

“Can’t remember,” Hanbin shrugs, hand falling back limp to his side. He wants to cling to Yunhyeong’s body like a lifeline, but something keeps him grounded and motionless. 

The music changes to something slower, sensual, bass low and seductive. “Can’t remember a goddamn thing.” 

He’s tripping fucking balls, he’s aware of that much, but it doesn’t seem really important. He’s lying, isn’t he? He’s had some of Yunhyeong’s molly, or he wouldn’t have been able to track him down in the maze of tunnels and neon lights. He isn’t lying about the second question, though: no matter how much he focuses, he can’t say for sure when was the last time he’s taken crystal, or how much it was. Time doesn’t feel like a real thing—Song Yunhyeong and he have been staring at one another for either an eternity or two heartbeats. 

“Follow me.” 

Hanbin should know better. The green-haired cashier looks like everything parents would warn their children about. He’s gone wrong. Hanbin did too, but there are some salvageable parts—or are there? Still, he doesn’t have to think twice before gripping the man’s wrist hard enough to bruise. Yunhyeong barely flinches—it’s unnoticeable, really—yet unlike the h-addict junkie from Junhoe’s party, there is no threat thrown at him, no deadly glare. As he navigates them both through the crowd, it almost feels like people instinctively move out of Yunhyeong’s way as he walks them further away from the scene. 

In no time, they’re out, Hanbin finding himself swallowed once more by the dark tunnels.

☘

They’re far. Close enough so they can still hear the thudding bass up to their spine, yet—they’re far. Hanbin doesn’t know where they’re going, but he follows the green-haired cashier with no question asked.

“Let’s go somewhere.” 

Yunhyeong’s voice doesn’t let room for argument. He says it like he commands it, but Hanbin still cocks an eyebrow. “It’s pouring down motherfuckers.”

“Doesn’t matter.” 

Rain doesn’t seem to bother either of them. It has been raining for weeks and weeks now, sometimes very few droplets and a shy rays of sunshine and others complete rainstorm—either way, it’s nothing they haven’t gotten used to. Besides, there is some comfort to find in streets washed by water, full skies when it’s the only thing that doesn’t change, the constancy in one’s life. Hanbin hates change. 

“Came here alone?” 

He glances to his right. “No. Friends still there.” Yunhyeong asks without a sound, so Hanbin adds, “got a car parked down the road, can’t take it though.” 

“Didn’t say anything.” 

Yunhyeong’s boots stomp the floor in quick steps and, fair enough, he didn’t suggest anything, but Hanbin has to make sure, set some boundaries. Car isn’t his, and even if it were, he would have let it here anyhow: Minho and Lalisa need it to ride back home. Thinking about them, Hanbin fetches his phone from his back pocket and texts messages to both his friends, telling them he’s gone and if he hasn’t come back home in two days starting from tomorrow then Song Yunhyeong has murdered him and fucked his corpse and tossed it down Han river. He gets a quick answer from Minho which is nothing but two lines of smiley faces and thumbs up and wonders how one can type so many different emojis in two seconds tops, smiling a little, slipping back he slips his phone back into his pocket. 

Looking up, Hanbin realizes they’ve reached the parking lot where several cars including Minho’s are parked, some rather crookedly and out of place, others in ordered lines. Yunhyeong’s eyes are scanning the place, face as expressionless as ever. Curious, Hanbin lets the guy lead them into whatever plan he’s cooked, wavering a little on his feet as the edge closer to a white, spotless Porsche Cayenne. 

“Who the fuck drives a goddamn cayenne to a shitty rave out of town?” Hanbin blurts out, shaking his head a little as he fishes for cigs. 

Yunhyeong’s smile is a tiny thing. He doesn’t answer, running a hand on the wet surface of the roof, gaze still following the car’s form, judging, analyzing. 

Hanbin can’t help but laugh a little. “You gonna steal that?” 

It sounds unbelievable even to his own ears. Who steals cars, in a city such as theirs, in a country where car theft has been decreasing incredibly fast due to the measures taken this last decade – the tight vigilance, CCTVs? Who still wants to try it, with a damn Porsche Cayenne out of all the beatdown cars which surely won’t be missed? Hanbin thinks it has to be some cosmic doing for him to meet someone like Song Yunhyeong—cashier, drug dealer, car stealer, and general threat to the civic, tame society.

“It’s not stealing if it’s open,” Yunhyeong replies, fingers closing around the door handle. 

He can't argue. What kind of fuckwit would leave such car unlocked, unprotected, parked so close to where people danced and overdosed and lost all control? He can only imagine. The cashier takes the driver’s seat, while Hanbin’s instinctively settles in the back, some old habit he can’t quite shake off. He hates the front seats as much as he hates any vehicle, but he’s too far gone to dwell on it much longer. 

Yunhyeong isn’t much of a speaker, but after a while, when their gaze meet, he does speak up. “Ever thought about leaving?” 

Always. Leaving where? Hanbin shrugs. “Yeah. Fucking off sounds nice.”

A small smile can be seen on the cashier’s lips. Hanbin looks away—doesn’t have much to add. He isn’t chatty either, per say, and if he does talk now it’d be the drugs doing all the job. And he refuses, as bizarre as it sounds, to get lower than where he already sits. This isn’t how he imagined spending time with the guy who haunted most of his dreams, but Hanbin wasn’t one to regret much. Shit happens, but he wouldn’t let it get any shittier. 

The rest of the drive passes by slowly—or too quickly, Hanbin still has trouble with time—both men wrapped in comfortable silence. The city lights shine brightly beyond the tainted glass of the car, white dots, huge screens, busy people. Hanbin’s mind slips away from him as seconds pass, the way it always happens in buses, cars. 

He falls asleep—or perhaps he’s been asleep the whole time.


End file.
